


The Artist

by wardenariana



Series: Stories of Thedas [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Relationships, Backstory, F/M, Memories, Prompt Fic, Stories of Thedas, The Artists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29985000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardenariana/pseuds/wardenariana
Summary: Ivaeni Lavellan muses on the artists she has known and some of her history with the Lavellan clan.Prompt from Talvi's January 2021 Stories of Thedas, which you can find on her Twitter (@Talviiiii).
Relationships: Dalish & Female Lavellan, Dalish (Dragon Age: Inquisition) & Lavellan, Dalish (Dragon Age: Inquisition)/Lavellan, Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Solas (Dragon Age), Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: Stories of Thedas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205528
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	The Artist

Art was always something that had simultaneously fascinated and eluded Ivaeni. She loved the colours, the symbolism, the sound of bristles gliding, the friction of canvas or stone pulling on the brush. But she had never been able to do it herself. Not well enough, in her opinion, at least. Ivaeni told herself, and others, that she had made her peace with that. No one can be good at everything, and she was a well studied historian and storyteller and a dedicated enough Second, she didn’t _need_ to be good at art. But she wanted to be.

Tamaris had the hands of an artist, soft and kind. Ivaeni could remember how gentle they were against her cheeks when he held her still to bestow her with her vallaslin, or to place a heartfelt kiss on her lips. She missed him dearly, though she did not miss the way their relationship had changed - how she had let herself get swept up by the desires of the clan’s elders, and by Tamaris’ affection for her. Ivaeni loved him deeply, but she had always known that it would never be enough or in the same way he loved her. Much like her desire to be an artist, she was never able to fully convince herself of these palatable lies, despite her ability to convince others. Most of the time Ivaeni was sure that no one else really saw who she was. She was simply a mirror, reflecting back what everyone wanted to see in her.

It was the mirror image that he painted or her, every time. His technique was impeccable, each line was precise, the final pieces beautiful, but Ivaeni never saw herself in them. Never saw her passion for their history in his journals. Never saw anything beyond the pride of the Dalish in everything he created. She was a good Second. Tamaris was always meant to have the position but she was a better mage than he was, and yet she only craved what he had. The ability to explore, to uncover, to do anything other than slowly take on the duty of being the clan’s memory keeper. At times her jealousy was spiked with something else. Where he simply recorded, she wanted to create, to expand. An Elvhen mural could be recreated down to the smallest detail to show future generations, but what did it mean if they did not discuss, conjecture over what it meant about their ancestry? Surely an artist could see, could _feel_ what she did when studying such artefacts?

Ivaeni had loved Tamaris since the day they swore to be friends forever. It was a promise she had always, and still swore to uphold. They were family. But they were never lovers. Not really. Just as his art had always felt empty to her, their romantic relationship felt more borne of circumstance and expectation than of a deeper kind of love. It didn’t take long before she knew she could never promise him anything more than her friendship. For months, maybe even years, she had felt trapped, dreaming of a way to escape the dichotomy of her life and forge her own path. Unanswered questions about the mark, and Corypheus, were heavy on her now, but there was still a part of her that was undeniably grateful to be here.

She was still musing on her time with her clan, with Tamaris, when she entered the rotunda. The artist was focussed on his work, but still brought his head up to greet her. Once she had gestured for him to continue, his head bowed back down, mixing colours with seemingly impulsive choices. His hands were soft and kind, but every move they made somehow felt both deliberate and carefree. A variety of expressions crossed his face as he worked, and his mood could even be seen through his body language. The brush strokes were long and slow, short and fast, and everything in between. Ivaeni felt like she was watching a careful dance between art and artist and it felt strangely intimate to witness. Every move brought up questions which were silently answered as the results became clear. She looked around and admired the finished frescoes, all evoking a strong pull in her gut. Every time she was here she saw something new, peeling away yet another layer. A colour she connected to a feeling, a shape she realised the symbolism of, composition that held her eyes captive.

They always talked when he painted. Sometimes about the work, but not always. With each conversation her connection and confidence grew and it wasn’t long until Ivaeni found herself with paintbrush in hand.


End file.
